Sibilant: Of Dawns and Dogmas
by daikiraimetsuki
Summary: A young girl with extraordinary abilities struggles along the dusky gray borders of morality. A reporter tells her tale as best he can. A father vows revenge for a perceived slight. A hero calls for justice. A villain lusts for power.
1. Her Own Words

"All men die. But first, they live."  
- George R.R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire

Adjusting my pad of paper, assorting my papers, I asked her where she wanted to begin. She told me – surprisingly shyly – that she wanted to start with Lolita. That had been the penultimate event, she said. This conversation was recorded, and all written dialogue from here on out is an exact transcript of her words.

"I guess, I mean, I don't…I don't know exactly how to start, but I guess I should start with Lolita, with forbidden love. I read it when I was seventeen," she said," a bookworm, but not as obsessed as I became. I remember how different it was: the whisper of words on the page, the simple eloquence of it. I was envious. I had tried writing, we all have – journals, essays, little short stories – and I knew how hard it was." She smiled bitterly.

"I knew when I was in the presence of a master, and I wanted to be one too. It was, it was like -- was like reading the word of a seraphim." She shakes her head. "I must sound like an idiot, talking about just a book this way." Equilibrium lost, she leans back in her chair. The full habit she is wearing – like a nun – covers her face, but I can tell she is frowning.

"It changed everything, because it opened my eyes to a secret. I have, this, this sense of intuition, right? I've had other people describe it as supernatural. I don't, y'know, sense a bullet coming," she said, chuckling, "but I can tell a lot of things. Like how good a card hand is, if somebody I know is gonna get hurt, that kind of thing. Strange stuff, but nothing you wouldn't find in a dozen books of myth. There's a feeling that comes with it, a tingle deep inside my chest. This time, it was more than a tingle – it was a wave of sensation. Overwhelming," she muttered, "unmanning."

She doesn't talk like a real person, I thought, almost like a character in a novel. It's like dialogue somehow.

"I had never felt anything that strong before, and it wouldn't go away. It's kind of hard to describe. The feeling was like psychic nausea. It lessened when I was reading, though, so I did. I didn't realize yet why I had the feeling, or why reading changed it, though I eventually did. It was when I read It. 'Reaper of a most ruthless sort' is early in the book; it describes the waters of a flood, I think. So, reading that, I realized: there's a power in words. Any writer knows that, of course," she said, "but I'd never really gotten how the interplay of words creates an effect, charismatic and potent. It was a strange realization. I wanted that power. So I consulted my intuition. Without words, it told me: just keep reading. Read, read, read. Of course, I did; I wanted my Hidden Power."  
I couldn't keep the question in any longer. "Why? Why did you want that so badly?"

She seems surprised. "I don't…I don't really know."

I don't believe you.

"So I did my research, read all the dark, bitter, pretty novels I could: Dracula, It, The Shining, anything! Anything that had words with that effect that I wanted so badly. I felt in my intuition, my finger on that eldritch current, for something, anything – a sign. Over years, with practice, it became easier: there were certain words, certain ways of writing, that could create charisma. Fascinated, I worked even harder to figure out how to translate this into words. My writing improved. My speech improved. It became easier and easier to make friends, to convince people, anything with communication. And I just kept getting better and better. It seemed like I could do anything." She stops.

"Something wrong? Or is that all for today?" I am curious. It doesn't feel like the end. She stands.

"No. No, it's not. I'm no- I'm not ready to talk about the first time I used it, but I can tell you my first secret. Better yet: I can show you."

"What do you me—" She pulls back the hood of her habit. Her face was smooth and pale, lovely and young – but her hair was black, streaked with striations of white as bright as comets in deep space. Her eyes, yellow, stared at me with a furious fire that bitterly contrasted the sorrow on her face.

"My name is Sibilant. I named myself for sound. For speech."

"Wha-"

"I look this way because of what happened when I saved myself. I kept getting better and better, like I said – and eventually, I couldn't deny it any more. It was supernatural. I was terrified and thrilled at the same time; I could finally save people, finally do something with my life," she frowns, gesturing forcefully, "and I was scared, because I could feel something changing inside me. I went to the only person I knew who might know something about it: my father. We had never been close: he'd never really liked me since I told him I didn't like science, but he was studying psychics in controlled conditions. He was trying to prove that they didn't exist. I didn't know who else to go to, you see?" She sounds like she's on the verge of tears.

"We can stop if you – "

"No! I need to-" Her voice catches. "I need to finish this. I went to him to find out what I should do. Instead of helping me, his daughter, he recruited me into his experiments, theorizing that I was a 'telepath,' that I knew how to manipulate people because I knew what they were thinking. A good theory, I suppose, for his mindset. At least he didn't try to deny it." She starts to cry.

"He tested me and tested me and tested me. No sleep, no reading; my psychic nausea was driving me insane. I could feel the changes speeding up. I was panicked. White and gray were appearing in my hair. My eyes were flickering." She wipes away tears.

"They used to be blue, did I mention that?" I shake my head.

"I was so scared. I guess I – no, I did. When the guard came to my door to escort me to a testing room, I killed him. I talked to him, convinced him; I took the gun from him, shot him, ran. I was so scared, don't you understand that?"

No. And I don't think I ever will.

"I got out…but not before I ran into my father. He was smiling. Smiling! He was watching me change into something else and smiling about it. Smiling, damn it!" Angry, focused, tears drying on her cheeks, she shouts.

"And with his damned device, as well. He called it a 'drainer,' maybe? A 'psychic energy drainer?' Something like that. If that's not what it was called, it's what it did. He trained it on me – and I could feel my intuition draining away. It was like a shout, then speech, then a whisper, then only the echo of a whisper – than it was gone. I didn't care, then; I was running past him, hoping I could get away. I didn't realize what that meant - that I didn't know how to understand my power any more. I didn't have my intuition." She pauses.

"It got out of control. I couldn't help using it. I had to be careful with what I said, because people would do it, and with no regard to their own safety, only my convenience. It was terrifying. I could do so much evil with it – or so much good." We're both silent - but it's a good silence. Almost intimate. Her eyes say "Tomorrow?" I nod.

"Thank you," Sibilant says, walking out my door.


	2. Pictures

"One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language."  
-- Denise Levertov

The package arrived at my door the next day, a thick brown envelope neatly stamped. No return address. Hardly surprising, since as a villain Sibilant was wanted by nearly every type of law enforcement known to mankind.

The postman handed it to me with a frown. No doubt the man was worried that such a thick, boxy package could contain plastique. Mailbombs had become a danger in the Rogue Isles; several had died recently from explosions - most had been postmen. Mail-sent explosives were the preferred form of hit: the evidence was mostly erased by sheer damage, and you didn't have to be there to do it. Assassination is a big business, like I said, and every corporation's major goals are the elimination of risk - and getting their product to the masses.

When I opened it with the letter opener, I expected a deluge of paper. Not so - only a half dozen sheets, typed, slid out. The rest of the envelope was filled with a framed picture. I pulled it out, curious. The frame was new, cherrywood polished and framed in gold. The picture was not: half was awash in a dark red stain that was either wine or blood, a tear marred the middle figure, it curved under the glass frame -- like it had been wet and dried badly.

It was of Sibilant before her changes. It was also of her parents. The three stood in a line, her parents smiling, distant; Sibilant in the middle, unsmiling, fierce, exuding an illitimitible, boundless anger. It was that emotion that defined the picture: a chilling enmity that pounded at the fragile bars of self-control in its way.

I would be lying if I told you that a chill didn't go down my spine at that. In a way her story hadn't, this spoke to me: she had been broken. Not just her bones, though I wouldn't doubt that many of hers had experienced at least a little cracking, but down to her psyche, to who she was. I could only guess who had done so: who else could it be, to create that expression, so fiercely angry - and didn't I see a little ruined trust there? A little loneliness?

I found my cynicism shaken. Ever since she had appeared at my door, cloaked all in dark red, eyes hidden, hands folded, I had doubted her. It seemed so dramatic: a girl appears at a reporter's door with a horrible story; a villain seeks redemption, all that - was I living in a noir? I'd listened, sure, but I had held my tongue for fear of losing it, not with interest. Her tears hadn't changed that: she'd said herself that she was a master of persuasion. Mastery of mendacity would have to follow.

It wasn't that I had doubted the veracity of her facts - just the reality of her emotions.

Doubt became much, much harder to summon while I was looking into those frigid blue eyes.

I put the picture out of sight, if not out of mind; like it had the night before, her face followed me into my dreams. Shaken, I reached for the sheaf of paper that had fallen out of the envelope in a pile at my feet. The first page was short, one line. The rest were dense with directions leading to a tiny cafe in Cap Au Diable.

_Don't feel sorry for me, _it said, _I don't deserve it. I kill._

The story and the picture, they seemed like perfect ways to create sympathy, understanding. I thought - well, I'd thought she wanted a friend. Reading the letter, it seemed I was dead wrong.

_Maybe she's just denying it, _I thought, _she wouldn't be the first to turn away help. Definitely not the first villain. Either way... _

I threw on my jacket, feeling like a detective in a 40s noir.

The cage was aromatic, rich with coffee beans, sugar, and cologne - instantly nostalgic and relaxing. A few college students sipped coffee drowsily, tapping away at laptops.

It's strangely peaceful here. This little shop doesn't feel like the Rogue Isles at all; the tension that pervades Cap Au Diable is gone. Sibilant must come here for that: a little calm, after the chaos of crime, would be euphoric.

"It is," she said from behind me. I turned, surprised, as she continued. "It feels even better with a cup of coffee and an iPod," she grinned, indicating the white headphone in her ear.

"I'm sure," I said, laughing. "That the only reason you called me here? To show it off?" She furrows her brow.

"You're not curious how I knew what you were thinking?"

I shrug. "Not really, no. You've got a lot of secrets, Sibil--"

"Don't call me that when I'm not in costume. My name," she said quietly, "is Cait. Cailtin Rowland."

_A name makes her more human, _I thought; _I can see how she could be a normal person, too. _

"You're paying for coffee, then."

"And go Dutch on the first date?" She laughed. Again, there was that strange spark of intimacy.

"So, Cait," I said, rolling the taste of her name around in my mouth, "what kind of coffee do you like?"


	3. Lies and Litigations

She sipped her coffee, gathering her thoughts.

Cait looked like a college student: a cheerful fat buddha smiled from her chest on a charcoal tee that declared "Rub my Tummy: It's Good Luck;" a pale pink dress-shirt underlaid that, and tattered bleached jeans covered her long, coltish legs. She looked too young, though: her face and her body were youthful (if nubile;) she looked like a seventeen year old. 

_Her eyes, though, and the way she smiles, the way she walks - she_ looks_ young, but she _feels_ older._

She made quick eye contact and smiled.

_Jesus, Daniel, stop staring!_

"Where did I leave off last time?" She dumped sugar packets in her coffee.

"With your father, I think. Some device of his?" Her face darkens.

"The psychic drainer. It turned out that I was partly wrong about what I thought it did; I thought it drained away my intuition - and it did - but I thought it left my actual abilities unaffected. It didn't: instead, they became more and more potent. I found inanimate objects lifting off, people would suddenly clutch their heads in agony when I walked by," she said, stirring the sugar around; sugar and spices rose to the surface, bright against the deep brown of the coffee. "That wasn't the only thing I was wrong about. I'd thought that reading had given me the power to persuade. Not at all; reading had only been the outlet. I was psychic." Looking at my expression, she laughed.

"I know how it sounds. Here, think of a number. Any number, no matter how large."

_Nine hundred and eleve--_

"Nine hundred and eleven," she said. "I know." I shook my head, incredulous.

"Why are you telling me all this? Why did I get this story?"

"Because I know you, Daniel. I read minds unconsciously," she said, gesturing around us. "I passed you when I was in your office, looking for somebody who could tell my story the way it deserves to be told. I'm not a bad person, Daniel; most people wouldn't be able to be objective." Cait sounded upset. "I don't want to be remembered as one."

"That's why? Because you think I can tell your story best?" I'm skeptical. Even I have to admit, I'm not the best reporter in my office; I'm not well-known at all.

"Your mind was -- there are some minds that are strong."

"As in smart?" She shook her head vehemently.

"No, not at all. Just strong. Their messages spread, they're easy to read; I see them a lot in skilled speakers. I think it has something to do with how eloquent you are." She gulps down coffee. Mine steams next to my recorder, untouched. "Are you going to drink that?" I shake my head and she leans over the table. For an instant -- 

"Whoa, whoa, hey there, down boy!" She blushes. "Okay, yeah, so your mind was the strongest I've ever seen. I could feel it from three stories away, through the walls, amidst the other people - who were no weaklings, you have good coworkers. It was incredible. Almost intoxicating. I was too scared to contact you there; I hadn't met anybody else who had psychic powers before, I didn't know if you might have them. If you exposed me there..." Her face is still red. It's striking against the black and white of her hair. Her strange eyes are covered by brown contacts so dark they seem almost black.

"Daniel, didn't I just say how easy it was to read your mind?"

"Pfft, says the girl who just talked about how _intoxicating _I am," I grin.

"Oh, God," she says, embarrassed. "Can we just get back to the story?"

"Yes ma'am!"

"You sidetracked me with your question about why I picked you, right, okay. I explained. You understand now?"

"I think so. You thought I might be something special, and you were curious; you thought I could tell your story best. Right?" She nods.

"Right, yeah. After I escaped from the military base where my father had taken me - like most normal human beings, he took me to a place where _he_ felt safe - I looked into his psychic research. It was easy; I just asked Arachnos soldiers that I saw. They don't attack you if you're polite enough, and I could always just control their leaders. He'd been working on two things: psychic implants and psychic blockers. What he'd done, I theorized, was give me a psychic blocker. That would make sense; the reading was what eventually wore it away, allowed me to begin to touch the beginnings of my power. By then, I'd learned a little of how to control my other ones - telekinesis, a little basic mind-reading and mind-control - though persuasion was still what I was best at," she said.

"I still didn't get where my powers had _come from,_ though. Was I a mutant? I'd heard a little about those, though never a psychic one. Was I the product of genetic engineering? That was my mother's specialty. I had no idea, though I knew how I should find out. I went for my mother." Suddenly, the air goes out of her. She laid her head on the table, quietly crying.

"Cait? Cait, what's wrong?"

_Why am I so concerned? This is a murderer, a thief -- a _criminal.

"That doesn't mean I'm not a person," she said, voice muffled. She's right. I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"No. I don't think so. I don't think I'm ever going to get over what she did to me."

"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled.

"I don't really want to talk about it. Jesus, Daniel, I always end up like this. My past needs to be less dramatic," she said, laughing. She wiped tears away.

"I could've found her in my sleep: she was waiting for me at my old house, where we'd all lived before the divorce. When I came in on her, in the night, she shot me. I was lucky; even without intuition, I had reflex. Telekinesis stopped the bullets. Mind reading and torture got me what I wanted to know. More than I wanted to know." Cait sighed.

"Daniel, I'm not human. Close, maybe, but not the genuine article. I'm an alien: my mother called my race Fey - like a nymph, or a dryad. I still don't know much about what I am; there are a few physical markings," she said. "Here, let me show you." She unbuttoned the top button of her shirt, pulling it aside.

"Stop having a heart attack, it's just a shoulder." Said shoulder was covered in dark green spatters like paint, dark like tattoos. "I've got more, but they're not in places appropriate for public showing," the villain said, laughing.

"Thighs, stomach, et cetera," she said. "All are dark green, and I seem to get more as I get stronger. Example: last week, I developed pyrokinesis - the ability to control flame - and, at the same time, I developed a spattering of those, I don't know - markings? Markings all across my back."

She's silent.

_Is she done? Is that it?_

Cait shrugs. "I guess it is. I can't think of anything else." I'm incredulous.

"Well, what happened next?"

"I got a costume, and I went out into the Rogue Isles." The words seem forced.

"How did you become a villain? Nothing you've done so far, not really, is evil. I don't get it." Sibilant smiles bitterly.

"I became a villain?"

"Of course you did," I said angrily. "You've said it yourself. You don't deny it when I think it or say it."

"How am I a villain?" She asks, curious. "What did I do that made me one?" I have to stop and think about it.

"You've killed people, you've robbe--" The villain shakes her head vehemently.

"I've never stolen anything. Not for my own use. I have killed people, yes - but so have half the heroes in Paragon."

"What, what are you talking about? You're a villain, you ca--" She cuts me off, angry.

"I'm a villain because the Rogue Isles have _never spawned a hero from their own soil._"

"What?" She leans over the table, her voice thick with anger.

"The Rogue Isles have had only supervillains. All the heroes who have ever been here are from foreign soil. It's an automatic assumption that any superpowered being is a villain. The fact that I killed people doing what I do didn't help, yes, but there are people in Paragon called heroes who do the same."

"So, you're saying it's all a matter of misrepresentation?" Cait, furious, clenches her fists. 

"Yes. It is. I've spent the last year saving lives, fighting villains--"

"And killing people. You murdered."

"Damn it, I told you, heroes do that --"

"Not real heroes." Her anger dissipates suddenly.

"Yeah." Her face is hot with anger, her eyes dark with bitterness. "You're right."


End file.
